Across the bridge: the trilogy
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: After raiding Al-Andalus. When one leaves, one never knows what awaits him when one comes back. Chapter 1 : Before news of Ragnar's death reach Rouen. Not that it will make much of a difference. Reviews welcomed.
1. The first step

Set in season 3, the attack of the Bridge has stricken me as a metaphor for Rollo from leaving his Pagan Northern family to reaching out for a new family in Frankia. Same Rollo but new allegiance. Glad as I was for our first Duke of Normandy, I could not help worrying for the princess fated by the Gods to become his soulmate.

Paris was akin to Troy threatened by invaders on board of war ships. Paris was too much of a promised land not to know that like Moses who never crossed the Jordan, Ragnar was fated never to really get to see this mystical Paris promised by Athelstan. The monk from Northumbria like the Frank Princess are the Other. They live among us but they belong elsewhere.

While I have no doubt of Rollo Love for his wife, we all know that his Viking soul yearns for another raid. A raid too much. Gods do not approve of seeing their gifts squandered. This is the reality of the Gods. They give; they take. Only our emptied hands give us the full measure of our loss. Orpheus paid the price; Rollo will suffer the same.

What started as a one-off will end as a trilogy. When all is lost while the world is full of the promises of tomorrow is the arc of this a selfish man becomes the great man our history books praise.

How and why Rollo becomes this great man by retrenching on all what made Life vibrant to him is the story I wish to offer you


	2. Chapter 2

The two children run the length of the wharf to meet their father' open arms and Rollo's cup overflows. All is fine until he realizes his wife is missing on the pier.

- _Where is your mother?_

In the church, they reply shyly.

In the church. For Eternity.

One instant ago, he was standing on a jetty expecting his wife and now, he will never have to expect seeing her ever again. Once she was standing by a red banner, regal, aloof. A goddess who had smiled on him. Once she had shed tears when he had trapped her to marry him. How angry she was when she tried to break the binds of marriage. How shy she had been when he had given her his heart. A goddess had loved a mortal and now... now like the Valkyrie of yore who had loved a mortal and died of it, this Norse mortal had betrayed her and the goddess had died. He should not have left Rouen. He should have returned earlier. He should have taken her with him. There are so many things he should have done; he has not doubt his mind will present to him all the what if he has failed to accomplish. He has failed the Gods who gave him so much happiness. Indeed he could have danced naked on the beach. Now, all he wants is to drown in the sea which bathes the coast of his lands.

Never to see her again. Always to be wounded by the vague shadows of women almost walking like her, almost waving their hands like hers. Almost like her; always to be disappointed. A life emptied of her. A very long life devoid of her. A life full of memories of a time when he was happy but did not realize it. Is this the fate Gods have in store for mortals. To learn too late that happiness is a bird which flies away never to return to his owner? A life, an empty life.

To be the descendant of Odin comes with the perks of a long life; today this feels like a curse. This is not life. This is not what he wanted. He was born to be happy... Rollo smiles bitterly. I was born to raid, he has told her. My Viking soul is dying in Frankia. Life is boring here; it is killing me. She has smiled sadly as if she knew and he has pretended he was not seeing her fear. He deserves this loss. This great hole in his chest has been rightly awarded. He was in Paradise and it is him who has willingly deserted it.

One instant ago, his world was basking in the Sun light and now, it is the night of tombs which reigns. Light forever gone. Like when he had betrayed Ragnar for Borg. Blood-eagled Borg ... the astonishing courage displayed by the Jarl on the scaffold has opened him the doors of Valhalla. Death... yes, Death is to be desired. To die, to follow her, to find her again and be happy together at last for Eternity in the Afterlife...

Except, she will not enter Valhalla. The All-Father has no room for Christian princesses however courageous and motherly. She would mock One-eyed Odin, this feisty woman of his with the true soul of a shield maid. Frankia has no room for females on the battle field, no space for ruling queen. Frankia's loss and Rollo's win. A win he has stupidly squandered. He is now alone, so far away from her. As for her, dying all alone. Believing herself abandoned, thrust away. Discarded as an unwanted toy.

\- _I am sorry. I am so sorry. I loved you so... no, I love you. I have never ceased loving you; I will always love you. I have been so stupid, so selfish. I needed to raid; I could raid for ... for what? What is a raid when there is nobody waiting for you? Nobody..._

The tears are salty, running like an endless flood as he crawls by the white monument in the chapel dedicated to the ducal family. Death ... death is desirable when life has nothing to offer you which makes it vibrant of futures. Death is ... for cowards like him. He sniffles as his eyes rest on two small bunches of flowers. Higgledy piggledy put together as children do... his children... his poor children. They do not deserve this lamentable excuse of a father.

Orphaned from the best of mothers, who will care for them if he leaves? The new emperor knows there are these in Western Frankia who call his predecessor's grandson, the true heir of his Imperial crown. His son, his beautiful son needs his protection. As for his daughter, she needs her sire to make her mother's hope a reality. Otherwise if she escapes with her life her royal cousin's unwanted attention, she will end up buried alive in a convent.

Rollo has no choice but to live. For his children's sake. He has to suffer this undesired, unsought after, outrageous long life for them. Willing prisoner of a woefully empty life. For the children. For this future they had dared to imagine they could see together. For Charles who had put his trust into him. Who had shown that the true heart of a berserker's father was beating in a Frank chest. No father could have been more generous, more giving, prouder than Charles. Damned you, Ragnar. My family is here, in Frankia. They need me and nobody will harm them... nobody...

Nobody ... that is if he can find the strength to live on. The will to live on when all he wants to do is to open this grave, lay by this corpse and close his eyes for Eternity. But he can't. Why death when death cannot reunite you. Christ God sees his heart, sees how complicated, treacherous it is. One does not trade with Gods. Especially when one is empty-handed. All he has to please Odin is his love for Christian. And the desire to avoid his Great Hall as she is away in Christ God own Hall. How to get inside? Where is this realm outside of Yggdrasil shadow? Not in its bowers or sitting on its branches. Away from it. How far is away when measured by Gods?

He must find it. Life will be enough insufferable without her yet tolerable as long as he knows they will reunite. But never ever to see her again? Total annihilation looks a better option in this case. He must find her; he must find his soulmate. He must... and he will! A long time ago, he has given her his arm ring. Symbol of his devotion, symbol of his Viking soul forever faithful to her. This arm ring has never left her arm. The priest who has led him to the chapel has informed the duke that his wife has been buried with it like Christian spouses are to show that the binds of marriage are not broken by Death.

He will find her. It will not be easy but he will find her. He can live this dismal lonely life talking to her listening back to the silence. He will take care of the children, of the duchy led by her voice. He can do it. Like in the past when Siggy was taunting him, daring him to walk and stop playing at feeling sorry for himself. He was sorry but he walked again; he is desperately sorry but he will survive in this bothersome void of a life. Just like in the past, all he has to do is to pretend not to feel the pain. Keeping his grief for himself. Alive and dead inside. No. Not dead but aching for the afterlife.

She will be so angry at him ...but he will win her over once again. She knows his heart, She must read it now. She knows now he was coming back; she knows he was ... he is steadfast in his love for her. Christ God magic is powerful. What he has united in marriage, nobody can cut. She has his soul and when this long life ends, she will drag it from the night of the grave like the light of a beacon guides the wary ship heavy from the bounty of a raid. She will guide his soul and this time, she will be there on the jetty waiting for him and him for her.

Rollo sitting on the floor seems impervious on the cold stones, his shoulders resting on a marble slate do not notice its inflexibility . He is muttering words no man can hear, least of them the sleeper in the sarcophagus . Almost as pale as thewhite marble, livid, seeing things nobody else sees. Alone. Alone from now on. Until steps come in his direction.

- _I want to be alone._

He roars like a wounded bear. Come any closer and the fool who dares to disturb the solitude of the Duke of Normandy will realize too late one does not intrude inside the lair of a wounded wolf.

The curtain which cuts the chapel from the great hall of Rouen cathedral is pushed impatiently open by Lagertha, With her like little chicks under the wing of their mother hen, the children of the duke who hesitate to go further.

\- _Your children speak an appalling Norse, Rollo. They will face hardship in Hedeby. Unless they set their mind on learning our language._

To this, Rollo raises his head which he had dropped when he had realized who was coming.

\- _Why should my children go to Hedeby? Why should they live with Earl Ingstad?  
_

The roar is gone left to a soft growl.

\- _Are you planning to go raiding with them?_

The Earl of Hedeby cannot but smirk. Some things, some men will never change. Rollo is one of them. Fatherhood has not altered him a bit. Taking responsibility or rather not taking it, that's Rollo. An empty or about jug is laying near him. The duke is drunk. All as usual. Drunk or almost...

Because in a church, the wine served at mass is not plentiful. Just like her people, Christians do not approve of slovenly behaviour in their temples. Horik had insulted Odin clerics; Horik lost all what was dear to him. Has Rollo dared to help himself of the Blessed Wine which is regarded as the Christian God Holy Blood? Lagertha' s soul shivers at the idea of the blasphemous deed. The jug looks plain, no gold or precious stone decorate it. No Divine drink then. The booze must have been given by the priests who now pray in the Great Hall in a language only understood by them. Are they praying for the soul of the Northern master of the City of Rouen? If so, it feels like the whispers of the nurses by a great ailing body.

A long time ago, Lagertha had entered into a terrified city and its emptied streets. It was like these great tides which revealed but for a brief moment lost monuments of the past. Interesting but not talking to the discoverer. Rouen streets are hushed down but not empty. The Franks of Normandy were waiting for their duke. A part of them rejoices in his return while the other weeps for the sad welcome he gets. The young ones look at her, at her son like they were a treat granted to them by Rollo. Look at the tamed North Men! Tame she is not as the wary looks she gets from the ducal squadron tell her the Frank soldiers are neither dupes nor unready to engage battle with the Vikings should the Norse people prove to be untrustworthy as they are too often.

When the berserker has understood what the tears of his children were telling him, he has run to the church leaving her and Bjorn with two frightened children. The boy has resolutely wiped his eyes and asked in the tone of one used to be obeyed who she was. His sister less courageous or less fluent has nodded in a manner curiously reminiscent of Siggy. An interpreter in their retinue has translated.

\- _Who are you to the father of our princelings? Should you be kin or friends, the ducal hall will be welcoming to your tired body? Should you be feral wolves of the Sea, know Franks give as good as they get!_

The hand resting on his diminutive sword is eloquent. This Bjorn and Gydda of the South are just as wise and feral as the children of her past.

\- _I am your aunt, Lagertha. Earl Ingstad... the Countess of Hedeby._

Lagertha is not sure if the title comes right in the language of the Franks but the smiles of these two children tell her more than words how they have missed protective arms. The boy slides his hand into hers pulling her inside the city and Bjorn carries in his arm a child who looks like he would have wanted his own to look. Safe in the knowledge of her parents' love. A little princess whose care is really secured.

- _So you are ... Geirlaug, aren't you?_

What the girl replies is a mystery but she smiles as her brother replies with as much authority as his years give him that he hopes his humble abode will not be found wanting to his paternal relatives. Franks like decorum at a grander scale than the Wessex court. It seems Rollo's brood is more Frank than their easy-mannered father.

A Christ God priest approaches the group. The interpreter has a lot of explaining to give...

Rollo has drunk but is not drunk. Not yet. His hazel eyes are sharp. Focused. He understands perfectly what Lagertha is implying and he sneers back.

\- _Have you ever paid attention to what Ragnar told you a long time ago, before we all went West? One has to stay for the children. One has to care for his family when… when… now...now, it's my turn. … Come children!_

The two children run to him leaving Lagertha's protection. The boy is tall yet a lot younger than his inches. He takes after his sire; the girl is more indeterminate. A nice blend of her parents. Certainly very stubborn refusing to answer to her Norse name. Adela stands where Geirlaug is no more. Adela because Mother liked the name. All in all, they look like Norse children if Norse children were wont to wear fancy Frank clothes with demure Christian hair styles. There is an echo of two children of a farm in Kattegat. A long time ago.

\- _Come, my cubs. It is not going to be easy ... not as easy as your mother would have wanted but we will get by. We will...We shall make her proud, right?_

The children have no fear of the great man. He may smell of wine but their instinct is right. They have nothing to fear from their father; his grief is their grief. His loss is theirs. They huddle together under his arms like eaglets under the wings of the eagle. Safe. Protected. They are not afraid of the monument of stone under which their mother sleeps.

Turning to Lagertha once he is assured his brood is at ease, the Duke lays down his law. The son-in-law of the late emperor knows how to speak. be heard and obeyed. It is time for Lagertha to know she will never be the Lady of Normandy. Time for her to know she is just a distant relative who has no say on his children's future.

\- _Rouen is our home. Not Hedeby, not Kattegat. This is where our family lives; this is where your mother… where… where she… sleeps. This is my duchy. Go and raid, Lagertha?_

The sharp laugh is bitter.

 _ **\- MY**_ _days of raiding are over._

The curtain is pushed again up as this time Bjorn enters the chapel.

\- _We should hear soon from Ragnar. I do not understand why there is no news yet._

Lagertha shakes her head as to silence him. As if he was to be surprised by the appearance of his uncle. It is the same disheartening view. An open shirt, hair in disarray. Drunk... no, not so drunk. The priests of the cathedral have brought wine to their lord albeit laced with water. Strong enough to soothe the pain light enough to remember it is but at bay. The face has not altered that much; this he knows. There is some new grey hair. Ragnar has aged; so has his younger brother. The eyes are red, swollen by too many tears. Yes the man who begged once for tough love and a serious beating is here but this is a shadow from the former self who was grieving for Siggy. This man has jerked upon hearing the name of his brother. A brother, a kin, a people he has betrayed for the sake of the emperor. Charles is dead and has been succeeded by another Charles. Less intelligent, more imbued of his position. Bjorn wonders what Ragnar would make of the new King of the Franks.

\- _We shall have to go to England regardless. We shall winter in your duchy?_

Rollo only replies by a head shake. There is nothing to add. Bjorn understands his uncle: as long as his fleet, his men leave Paris alone, do not sail the river up. Rollo is happy to welcome them in his lands. Some of the warriors of the North are showing worrying signs of worshiping Christ God. Floki is not dumb; he has eyes and ears. The bishop of Rouen has lauded the son of King Ragnar 'the brother dear to our Duke's heart' to have brought back the Lord of Normandy. It remains his priests, thankful as they may be, are not refraining from proselytizing among the men of Kattegat. Spreading the Good Word will meet with consequences for those who pay attention to it. Bjorn knows these warriors will not be able to sail back up North. The priesthood of the Great Temples in Uppsala believe a good Christian is a dead Christian; Floki murdering Athelstan has been approved and blessed. The newly converted North Men will have to settle in the lands of his uncle.

Bjorn is going to ask something but he stops on his tracks. Rather, he walks calmly to the marble against which Rollo was sitting and is now standing as if he is taking a wider look of the chapel. As if he realizes Rollo sits at the foot of a white sarcophagus on top of which lays the sculpted effigy of a woman.

Bjorn fingers run along the statue. Would almost caress the marble cheek of the sleeper but stop on her arm. By respect.

\- _Father told me she had fire in her. That she had the heart of a true shield maid._

Lagertha looks sharply at her son as he carries on.

\- _He says that the Gods had granted him his wish to see how Gydda would have turned out. A bitter sweet gift as the Gods are known to give._

Turning to Lagertha, the Viking man concludes:

\- _She made her father proud. Protecting her family…Father envies the emperor because of her._

But a hoarse voice interrupts Bjorn.

\- _Now it is my turn…. our turn to protect our family. Norse and Frank united._

His sniggering laugh precedes the new comer. Incongruous, outrageous but then his owner has always spoken his mind. Floki enters; how long has he been listening to them, the people in the chapel do not know: they do not care. Lagertha and Bjorn steps were heralding their entrance but not Floki's. Floki steps are inaudible just like the God Loki when He sets His mind to be unseen, unheard by mortals when he ventures in Midgard.

\- _Frank…. You will never enter the golden gates of Valhalla!_

Floki sneers but steps back as Rollo barks:

\- _Why would I want to go to Valhalla?_

The two North men and Lagertha gasp, surprised at the outburst.

\- _Why would I go to Valhalla? I shall go to Paradise! I want to go the Christ God Afterlife. This is where she… she rests. She sleeps there, isn't it, children?_

The two children confirm while their father pursues, as if he is seeing someone, something nobody but the children understand.

\- _Christ's Heaven is like… like Paris. Surrounded by great walls and many want to enter it but only a few are chosen. There is a long and narrow bridge you have to walk on to enter it. Remember, Lagertha? When we fought in the dark in this long corridor. We were not seeing what and where we were standing. Who we were fighting against... All we could see was the vague light of the torches and the fire of the gates. All we knew was that on the other side of the bridge was ... what we were looking for. That's our life, Bjorn. We live dismal lives, lost in the darkness of night with feeble lights throwing shadows around, knowing that what matters is out of our reach. Just like I knew 'she' was on the other side of the bridge, protected by her soldiers..._

Floki listens just like he listens when the Seer speaks. He knows; he has always known when people are sincere. When people have really seen what lays across the mist where Gods walk and mortals aspire to. When people really believe in what they say. Rollo is sincere. Now. And it angers him as a father would be angry if he was to find his child has betrayed him.

\- _After this life, one is tired, bruised. Heart full of regrets. So many mistakes… Errors. So much treason and failure. There is no pride in one's heart. Just exhaustion. Our valkyries... Odin's daughters they choose the slain. They judge one's worth in battle: on his might, his courage, endurance, bravado. In Paradise. Christ God judges one's worth on one's deeds. And … and one's has betrayed so much… When the gates open… oh, Lagertha. All you know of Paris are empty streets full of fear and bloodied bodies strewn across. Paris… Paris is so much better than all the tales woven by Athelstan. You do not know the laughter of the children of Paris running in these streets, the smile of lovers who walk following the river banks, the beauty of the city in a summer late afternoon. When the gates open, you are exhausted, more dead than alive . You know that you have failed. You are your own judge and you know you have been found lacking … You expect to be expelled from this magic city. You hear the horn and you know… nothing because it is not words of hate you hear. No, what you hear are the lucky ones who call you brother, friend. Who rejoice because you are home. Home. And she is waiting for me. Like after Ragnar and you all had sailed away. Leaving me with Eirik and his men... She waits for me ... across the bridge. She will run to me and her father.. her father will step down from his throne, walking down its steps to greet me. To help me from falling. And … he will crown me again… Like a father welcomes a long lost son who has made him proud... and I'll be happy...  
_

After this, there is not much left to say. The three Norse people leave: Floki persuaded that the Gods have inflicted madness on the traitor. Bjorn knows better. His kinsman has been wounded deeper than he ever was when Siggy died yet when Haraldson's Widow drowned, Rollo had more pain. Rollo has still hope; this is something he will have to reflect upon.

As for Rollo, the great bear holds his children in a hug. The wolf carries on speaking to his children.

\- _Yes, we shall make them proud. We shall be worthy of their love!_

The princelings snuggle to their father.

 _\- Will you leave again?_

 _\- Never. My place is here. When the day comes, you will lay me here, near her... She has my soul, you know. This way, when the day comes, I shall find her. The great walls and the bridge... I shall find her..._

Two days later as they stand to the front of the ship, Bjorn asks his mother if she has spoken to him. If Rollo 'knows'. Slowly shaking his head, she says no.

 _\- As if it would have made a difference!_

Floki does not mince his words. The shipbuilder does not approve of traitors to the Gods and to his King. That Rollo is unaware of the horrible fate which has been allocated to his brother is no excuse for him. No free pass. If Rollo has been steadfast to Ragnar, nothing would have happened. Not this way. Paris would have been raided again, Ragnar would not have stopped ruling Kattegat and he would have avenged the victims of Egbert treachery in time. It would not have ended this appalling way.

Now, Ragnar will never enter Valhalla... because of Rollo. Rollo should rejoice because they are now equals. Ragnar deprived of the joys of Odin's great Hall equal to a villain who rejoices at not entering in ... who shudders at entering Valhalla. This is madness; this is the proof Ragnarok is coming when great men die like dogs and traitors dreams of a happy ever afterlife are secure.

\- _My uncle is a Christian, Floki. And he is happy this way_.

The retort flies.

\- _The Gods have not fated us to be happy. The Gods have fated us to do great deeds._

 _\- And they have fated Rollo to be a great man. Accept it, Floki._

Bjorn and his father's faithful retainer tilt their heads as if their ears are doubting what they have just heard from the lips of the great shield maid.

\- _Once, I told your uncle that he was not a great man if he was a great warrior. He has changed. For the better. He will be a great man, Floki. Because he will not be one for his selfish sake but for the sake of his family._


End file.
